Charlotte Evans’s obituary had appeared in the local newspapers two days after her death. The write-up managed to provide a comprehensive summary of both her personal and professional accomplishments.
The details of her memorial service were listed in the obituary’s final paragraph. The venue was relatively small, which meant the congregation would be as well. In such an intimate locale, Santana couldn’t attend the services without drawing unwanted attention, but she needed to be there. Not to mark Evans’s passing but to observe those who turned out to mourn her. She needed to keep a close eye on Brooklyn and the people around her to see if any of them struck her as the person who had paid to have Evans killed.
Unlike other hits she had been involved with, this one felt personal. It seemed logical, therefore, that the perpetrator had to be a member of Evans’s inner circle. Brooklyn’s reaction had ruled her out as a potential suspect. Now Santana had to work her way through the rest of Evans’s friends and associates before she could rule them out as well.
She pulled up the obituary online to remind herself when and where the interment was scheduled to take place. Unlike the small church where the memorial service would be held, the cemetery sprawled over several acres.
She opened her favorite search engine. With a few clicks, she managed to find a map of the cemetery’s grounds as well as a chart of the hundreds of burial plots located onsite. She downloaded both and forwarded the images to the headset device that looked like a standard pair of eyeglasses but functioned as a computer.
The device was controlled by a series of voice commands and allowed her to access a wide variety of programs hands-free. Today, she planned on using it to surveil Evans’s mourners. She wouldn’t be able to get close enough to hear their conversations, but she could observe their interactions while she discreetly photographed them. When she returned to her apartment, she would run the photos through an image recognition program to determine who they were and, hopefully, what their relationship to Evans had been.
Some headstones and monuments in the cemetery were several centuries old. Evans’s family plot, on the other hand, was relatively new. According to the chart Santana had found, it was located in a tree-lined area near the gated entrance.
She checked her watch. Evans’s memorial service was about to begin, leaving her plenty of time to pick up a potted plant from a nearby flower shop and make her way to Jersey City. Once there, she hoped to find a grave that didn’t appear to have frequent visitors but afforded her a clear view as Evans’s remains were entombed in their final resting place. A simple bouquet might not draw as much attention, but a potted plant would give her a built-in excuse to linger at the gravesite long enough for the interment service to take place.
She dressed in an outfit that was unassuming rather than flashy. Jeans, a gray pullover, and a black overcoat. She opted against gloves because the temperature, though far from balmy, was high enough not to warrant them.
The flower shop she frequented most often was a few blocks from her apartment. Harry Sanders, the owners’ son, greeted her as soon as she walked in. “Good afternoon, Ms. Bautista. How may I help you today?”
The high school senior was nearly a head taller than she was. Not so long ago, he had barely come up to her shoulder.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Harry? Call me Vilma, not Ms. Bautista.”
Harry’s long blond hair flopped back and forth as he forcefully shook his head. “No can do. My dads raised me to respect my…”
Santana arched an eyebrow as his cheeks colored. “Your elders?”
“No,” he said hastily, “my customers.”
“Nice save.”
“Thank you. What are you in the market for?”
Santana looked around the shop, which was packed with so many flowers it looked like a starter kit for a float in the Rose Parade. “I need a potted plant that’s low maintenance and can be kept outside.”
“I know just the thing.” He set aside the bouquet he was arranging and came around the stem-covered counter. “Stay there. I’ll be right back.”
He sprinted up the stairs and headed to the shop’s second floor. The first floor was filled with dozens of bouquets in a variety of containers. The second floor looked more like a nursery. Potted plants dotted the area. Some were for sale, others meant for eventual use. Harry picked up a ceramic pot containing a fragrant purple plant.
“What’s that?” she asked. “I can smell it from here.”
“Lavender. If you place it in a sunny spot with at least six hours of sunlight per day, give it the right soil and plenty of drainage, it will practically take care of itself.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Awesome.” Harry tucked the container under his arm and headed down the stairs. “Will this be all?”
“Yeah, that’ll do it.”
“Would you like me to wrap it for you?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.”
“Cool.”
Santana reached for her wallet as Harry began to ring up the purchase. “What?” she asked when he peeked at her through the veil of his shaggy bangs.
“You typically buy bouquets when you come in. The arrangements are beautiful, if I say so myself, but they don’t last long. Potted plants imply a sense of permanence.”
“And?” she said, trying to prompt him into taking a less circuitous route to get to whatever point he was trying to make.
“Are the flowers for you or someone else?”
“I haven’t met the love of my life, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Oh.” His expectant smile faded.
“Why do you look so disappointed?”
He lowered his eyes. “Sometimes you seem lonely. I was hoping you had met someone.”
“You’re a hopeless romantic just like your fathers.”
“Is that such a bad thing?”
She swiped her debit card to pay for the purchase, then picked up the plant she had just bought. “No, I guess it isn’t.”
“Have a good day, Ms. Bautista.”
“You, too, Harry.”
His words stuck with her after she left the shop.
“There’s a difference between being lonely and being alone,” she reminded herself as she headed for the subway.
Lonely wasn’t a word she had ever felt the need to apply to herself. It implied she had been forsaken or abandoned. Nothing could be further from the truth. She had been loved. Fiercely and wholeheartedly.
For years, Winslow had used love as a weapon against her. Perhaps the time had finally come for her to return the favor.
Chapter Eight
Brooklyn had expected today to be difficult, but she hadn’t imagined it would turn out to be quite so tough. She had lived the past few days in a fog, stumbling from one self-imposed goal to the next as she tried to keep her emotions under wraps. The numbness that had set in almost immediately after she discovered Charlie’s lifeless body had finally worn off at the memorial service when Charlie’s inconsolable parents had draped themselves across her flower-covered coffin.
“I would react the same way if that was you or one of your brothers and sisters up there,” her mother had whispered as Gail Evans’s agonized wails echoed off the church’s high ceilings.
Brooklyn had told her mother she didn’t need her to accompany her to Charlie’s funeral. Knowing how close Brooklyn and Charlie had been, her mother had decided to come anyway.
Brooklyn didn’t know whether to feel grateful or annoyed by her mother’s presence. She was touched by her mother’s concern for her well-being, but she wanted to prove she was a grown woman who could stand on her own two feet, not a little girl who still needed her parents’ protection.
A lump had formed in her throat, making it hard for her to breathe. Though the arm her mother had wrapped around her shoulders had provided some much-needed comfort, she had longed to get away. To go somewhere she could pretend the events of four nights ago had never ha
ppened, but she had known that place didn’t exist. Not even in her fantasies, let alone the real world.
As she stood in the cemetery watching Charlie’s pastor read several passages from the Bible over her grave, she prayed for the whole thing to be over. She was still feeling a bit unsteady from the tequila shots she and a group of Charlie’s friends had downed during an impromptu wake in Charlie’s favorite bar the night before. She had stopped drinking before she had gotten completely wasted, but several other attendees hadn’t. No wonder they, Luke included, had been no-shows today.
The evening had been filled with more laughter than tears as everyone took turns telling funny stories about Charlie. Today had been the exact opposite. Brooklyn wished she could cry so she could start to feel better, but her burning eyes remained dry.
She glanced at a solitary figure about fifty yards away. The person’s back was to her so she couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. A fitted baseball cap covered the person’s hair, and the upturned collar on their black overcoat hid their face from view.
The person was exchanging the dead flowers at the foot of a grave for a pot filled with what appeared to be fresh lavender. Feeling like she was invading the person’s privacy, Brooklyn forced herself to look away. Soon, she would find herself in a similar position. She wouldn’t want a stranger ogling her while she visited the grave of someone she loved as much as if not more than a member of her own family.
This whole experience was new for her. Certainly, this wasn’t the first time she had lost someone she cared about. Those people were decades older than she was and, in most cases, their deaths had been expected. With Charlie, it was different. She was only twenty-eight. She still had so much to live for. So many goals yet to be accomplished. So many hearts yet to be broken.
Brooklyn knew her broken heart would mend eventually, but she didn’t expect the process to take place anytime soon.
“Are you okay?”
The question was asked in a voice barely above a whisper, but Brooklyn flinched as if it had been shouted. She looked around. The interment service was over and most of the mourners had begun to make their way to their cars. Her mother was chatting with Charlie’s parents near the front of the oversized tent that had been erected to shield the mourners from the elements, and employees from the funeral home had already started removing the empty folding chairs.
Brooklyn looked up to see JoAnna Gojowczyk staring down at her. JoAnna had interned for BDV Enterprises during her senior year at Columbia two years ago. After she graduated, Brooklyn had hired her as a programmer. Charlie had been her direct supervisor and biggest supporter.
“The kid has skills,” Charlie would say each time one of JoAnna’s ideas received a greenlight to go into production. “She must get it from me.”
Though she was obviously proud of JoAnna, Charlie had also teased her relentlessly. She had nicknamed her AJ for her tendency to create a finished product in her head and work backward while she strived to turn fantasy into reality. Most people started at the beginning. AJ preferred to start at the end.
“I can leave if you like,” she said. “You look like you’d rather be alone.”
“No, it’s fine.” Brooklyn patted the chair next to her. “How are you holding up?” she asked after AJ settled into her seat.
AJ shook her head. Her eyes looked pained as she stared into the distance. “It still doesn’t seem real. I keep waiting for the phone to ring so she can ask me what ideas I’m working on or point me in the right direction if she doesn’t think what I come up with is up to snuff.”
“She could be gruff sometimes.”
“I knew she only did it because she was trying to bring out the best in me.”
“My favorite teachers were like that. They challenged me rather than coddled me. I’ve always been self-motivated, but having an extra push from time to time doesn’t hurt.”
“Are you going to the repast?”
“I haven’t had much of an appetite the past few days, so I don’t plan on eating anything, but my mom and I will stick around and help clean up after the reception so Charlie’s parents don’t have to.”
“If it’s all the same with you, I think I’ll skip it. I’ve never been very good at espousing sympathies with strangers while balancing a paper plate filled with food cooked by well-meaning friends and family members doing their best to mitigate the loss of a loved one. In this situation, I don’t think a green bean casserole is going to cut it.”
Brooklyn pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. “You sound like Charlie.”
AJ flashed a sad smile. “She was my mentor, remember?”
“Do I ever. You two made a great team.”
“Yeah, I’m going to miss collaborating with her. Seeing her face light up whenever I managed to solve a problem or brought her an idea she found intriguing. I lived for those moments.”
“I’ll try to pair you with someone else who can provide the same creative spark.”
“Someone like you?”
Brooklyn was usually too busy trying to keep the company afloat to get too involved in the projects that kept it going. She missed being in the trenches. Getting her hands dirty. Perhaps this was a chance to return to her roots.
“I think that could be arranged.”
“I’d like that.”
AJ rubbed her hands together as if she were trying to gather her courage to ask her something.
“What’s on your mind?” Brooklyn asked when no question seemed to be forthcoming.
AJ fixed her with an earnest look. “Frankly, I’m ready to get back to work. I’m ready to return to the office and get back to my old routine. Working from home is a lot less expensive than commuting every day, but I miss seeing everyone. It feels like I’m working by myself instead of with a team, you know?”
Brooklyn hadn’t been in the office in days. The cleaners she had hired had been incredibly thorough. Most people walking into the space probably wouldn’t be able to tell anything untoward had ever happened there. She, on the other hand, would never be able to forget. She wasn’t looking forward to returning to the literal scene of the crime. But she had a company to run and employees to look after. She had to do what was best for both.
“Are you working on something new?” she asked.
“Yes,” AJ said with almost palpable excitement. “Last night, I had an idea for a new app. Utilizing a conversational interface powered by artificial intelligence, users would be able to—”
Brooklyn held up a hand before AJ could get too revved up. “Put a presentation together and pitch it to me in a couple of days. If I like it, I’ll kick it to the product committee to get their take on it.”
“Thanks, boss. I’ll see you Monday morning.” AJ squeezed her hand before she bounded out of her seat.
As Charlie’s parents climbed into the long black funeral car that would drive them home, Brooklyn joined her mother at the front of the tent.
“Was that one of your employees I saw you speaking with?”
“Yes, that was one of my programmers. She was checking up on me and making sure I knew how anxious she is to return to work.”
Her mother placed a hand in the crook of her elbow as they slowly walked across the plush grass toward the gas-guzzling SUV parked a few feet away. Brooklyn kept trying to convince her to switch to a vehicle that was more environmentally friendly, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it.
“That car’s been paid off for years,” she would say each time Brooklyn brought up the subject. “A tank of gas costs a whole lot less than a car payment.”
“I was skeptical when you said you wanted to start your own company,” her mother said as they climbed into the SUV. “I’ve seen how volatile the tech industry can be. You’re on top one year and bankrupt the next. But you’re good at what you do. Your employees like you and, more importantly, they respect you. You listen to their concerns, treat them right, and let them know how much they’re valued. You’ve used the qual
ities it takes to be a good parent in order to be a good boss.”
“Did you give Bella and Tessa that same speech?” Brooklyn asked as she fastened her seat belt.
“I tried to talk them out of procreating, but you can see how well that turned out.”
Between them, Brooklyn’s sisters had seven kids—and the prematurely gray hair to prove it.
“I think your reverse psychology needs a bit of work, Mom.”
Brooklyn looked out the window. The figure she had seen kneeling in front of one of the other graves was still there. She took a moment to admire the person’s apparent devotion for the friend or relative they had come to visit.
“Someone you know?” her mother asked as she turned the key in the ignition.
“No, just someone who caught my eye.”
Something about the figure seemed familiar, but Brooklyn was pretty sure the only thing they had in common was grief.
Chapter Nine
As the cars from the Evans funeral procession slowly began to exit the cemetery, Santana gave the verbal command for the camera on her headset to switch to continuous shooting mode.
“Now zoom in.”
After the camera regained focus, she captured images of each car’s license plate. She might not need the information if the image recognition search came up empty, but she would rather have it and not need it than the other way around.
She waited for the final car to disappear from view before she pushed herself to her feet. She regarded the grave she had tended for the past thirty minutes. The weathered headstone belonged to Melanie Pierce, who had been born in the nineteenth century and had passed away just before the dawn of the twenty-first.
The epitaph below Melanie’s name hinted her time on earth had been not only long-lasting but well-lived. Instead of traditional sentiments like RIP or Beloved, a recipe for fudge brownies had been inscribed in the stone. Seeing a touch of levity in such an incongruous setting brought a smile to Santana’s face.
Heart of a Killer Page 6